fool for you
by Bespectacled
Summary: The entire situation was ridiculous and hopeless – young ladies didn't fall for chauffeurs, except possibly for practice. Valentine's Day ficlet. Sybil/Branson, closest to fluff I've gotten so far...


"You're a fool."

Sybil looked up to see her elder sister standing in her doorway. She lay down the small, red token, trying to be casual about it – hiding anything would be all too suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're a fool." Mary sat down on her bed, speaking more gently now. "And I can see your valentine."

She felt her cheeks grow pink. "It's just a...a token."

"Exactly." Mary fixed her with a gaze – the problem with sitting before a mirror meant it was all too difficult to escape it. "Sibyl. I know you aren't the heiress, but you're still expected to marry well. You can't marry some poor lad from the village."

She turned back, wanting to meet her sister's eyes. "I'm too young to be thinking about this! He's just... He's nice. He's been good to us."

"There isn't a future for you. It's kinder not to pursue this."

Sybil Crawley was fourteen, and she knew that her sister was wrong.

* * *

She was a fool.

Sybil Crawley was eighteen, and she wished that her sister had been wrong.

She looked out of her window in vain – she couldn't see him from here, although she liked to imagine that he was working on the car's engine, sleeves rolled up, collar as loosened as Carson would allow, sweat beading on his brow –

Oh, but she was _such_ a fool.

It was unseasonably warm for February, and she found herself wondering what possible excuse she could have for going out for a drive.

She had, her father had informed her gently, been dominating the car somewhat, and he certainly couldn't see a good reason for it. He had looked at her, clearly confused, and she had feigned boredom.

Thank heavens he was so distracted with the entail, or perhaps thank heavens that he had never been an eighteen-year-old girl.

An eighteen-year-old girl in –

Was she in love? Or was it, perhaps, a crush?

She wasn't certain that she knew better, that she could know better at that young age (he made her feel young, sometimes, when he told her about the world, about things he'd seen, things he knew, things he'd read).

If knowing better meant losing the feeling that bubbled within whenever she saw him, then she didn't want to.

* * *

He was a fool.

He watched Mary and Sybil walk into Crawley House, apparently visiting Matthew – when Sybil had mentioned the date, Mary had shrugged it off, acting as if she had forgotten the day existed. Sybil's eyes had met his in the mirror, and they had shared a small smile – he could only hope that the elder of the two ladies hadn't noticed.

The entire situation was ridiculous and hopeless – young ladies didn't fall for chauffeurs, except possibly for practice. It was possible that he was being used as a tutorial – in the same way that little girls played with dolls houses and toy babies to prepare them for running a house and having a child, he was being toyed with.

Then again, he wasn't sure that the girl had it in her – she was not the kind to do anything half-heartedly. No; when she loved, it would be entirely, it would be beautiful, and it –

It would not be him.

"Branson?"

He was pulled out of his reverie by her smile. "You looked lost in a daydream." It was a most gentle reprimand – was it one at all?

He was _such_ a fool.

"Sorry, m'lady – time flies, I suppose. You're ready to go home?"

Sibyl smiled, impish. "I felt that Matthew and Mary may do better alone, so I recently recalled that I needed to get something, most importantly, from... Ripon. Although, really, just a drive would be fine. I doubt they'll notice."

He chuckled, getting out of the car to help her in – he was certain she didn't need his help, but he wouldn't give up that moment of contact for the world. (A hopeless fool)

She smiled him his thanks. "Actually, let's go to Ripon, there's something I want to buy."

"As you wish, m'lady." He nodded, taking up his place. "You believe there's something between her ladyship and Mr Crawley, then?"

"I believe there is a chance." She settled herself in her seat, looking much more comfortable now that it was just the two of them. "And I believe there is more of a chance without me playing gooseberry."

He couldn't help but grin at that. "I'm sure they didn't see it like that."

"And I'm sure that you're all too kind to me, Branson."

That, at least, was true.

* * *

"I'm a fool." He looked at himself in the mirror, waiting for to finish her business in the small shop. He wiped it absently with a cloth he kept especially for the occasion – she had promised not to be too long.

And she kept her promises.

"What did you say?"

He turned to see her, beaming, cheeks slightly pink – had she rushed? She needn't have. "Nothing, m'lady, just... Nothing. You're ready to go?"

"Almost." She presented him with a small package – tiny, barely a trifle. "For you." She informed him, completely unnecessarily.

"M'lady – Sybil – I..." He clutched it tightly, looking down at it, and then at her expression – bemused at best. "I can't – "

"You can accept it, of course you can." She informed him. "I'll order you to if I have to."

He smiled reluctantly. "Now that's hardly fair."

"But it has made you smile again, so it hardly matters." She beamed, eyes following the package he lay gently on the seat beside him as he helped her into the car. "You are going to open it, aren't you?"

"No, m'lady, it's wrapped so neatly I might keep it that way."

Nobody else would've allowed such cheek, and he suspected that if he hadn't just closed the door behind her she would swat him on the head.

It was a tiny gift – a token, really, a small piece of paper, with a simple message, along with a new handkerchief. He smiled – for her, it was nothing to buy such a thing, but it was one of the nicest things he'd ever owned.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Tom." She said quietly, watching his expression in the rear-view mirror.

Oh, but they were _such_ fools.

* * *

_IDK, let's call it a prolific phase... if I were quicker off the mark, this would've been up on Valentine's Day itself, but I wasn't, so have it...what, twenty minutes after? Written today, set (almost entirely) on Valentine's Day 1914, so before the count and all of that business... (Hence the conspicuous lack of "oh noes the count!" that I include in pretty much everything else I write for these two...)_


End file.
